


Check, Please!

by kuonji



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Meetings, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 08:43:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11597088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuonji/pseuds/kuonji
Summary: "My name-ah ees-ah Steffano. Whata weela eeta bee-ah, my yelloh-haired-ah  amico?"Hutch looked up, startled. A mustachioed waiter sporting a head of unruly curls grinned at him with twinkling blue eyes. "Uh, excuse me?"





	Check, Please!

Hutch sighed as he sat back against his chair. He was glad to be on his own for the first time since this morning. He loosened his tie with relief and plucked out the menu from its wooden holder. 

The prices were a little higher than he was used to, but he thought they were reasonable for his new pay scale, which should kick in today. He would manage on the surplus from his moving expenses until his first paycheck came in. His mouth watered at the selection of simple but filling fare. 

"My name-ah ees-ah Steffano. Whata weela eeta bee-ah, my yelloh-haired-ah _amico_?" 

Hutch looked up, startled. A mustachioed waiter sporting a head of unruly curls grinned at him with twinkling blue eyes. "Uh, excuse me?" 

"Your order-ah, sir. Whata weela you have-ah from our fine-ah eestableesha-meento?" 

Hutch looked around the humbly decorated Italian eatery. Neither the other patrons nor the slim receptionist at the front paid them any mind. He reluctantly turned back to the waiter. "First of all," he said, "I'd like you to get rid of that _awful_ accent." 

The man apparently known as Steffano looked hurt for a moment. Then he grinned and asked, in a thick Brooklyn brogue, "What gave me away?" 

Hutch rolled his eyes in answer. "Actor?" he surmised. A perpetual multitude of out-of-work theater actors filled out the New York City wait staff, whether on break from seasonal work or still waiting for their chance on (or off) Broadway. 

The other man's grin widened. "Good guess. So," he said, clicking his tongue in a faux business-like manner. "What'll ya be havin'? Our alfredo fettucine's famous. So's our white pizza. The shrimp's real fresh today if you want to try the seafood linguini. Soup of the day is meatball." He bent down to confide in an outrageous stage-whisper, "I prefer a thick-crust marinara with double pepperoni myself, but don't let the chef hear that." Then he straightened and waited expectantly, pen hovering over his notepad in all innocence. 

Hutch couldn't help but be taken in by the irrepressible would-be thespian. "No pizza for me, but the linguini sounds good," he said. "And a house salad. And bring me a glass of merlot, please." 

The waiter nodded as he jotted down the order in a brisk scrawl. "California man?" he asked. 

"Good guess," Hutch echoed wryly. "What gave me away?" 

In answer, the waiter quirked an eyebrow and gave him an obvious once-over. Hutch supposed his looks and accent must stick out as much here as this man's would back home. 

"Never mind," he said, coloring slightly. 

"You want the wine now or with the entrée?" 

"I'll have it now. Oh, and could I have the salad dressing on the side, please?" 

"No problem, beautiful." Steffano winked and headed for the kitchen. 

Hutch smiled at his antics and took a sip of cool water. Settling more comfortably, he rolled his head around and listened to his neck crack. He'd spent the day in orientation meetings, and tomorrow promised more of the same. He knew that it was important for him to learn the territory and get to know his co-workers before he could get to the real work that he loved, but he wished it weren't all so... dull. 

"Fresh bread for the moping gentleman." A napkin-covered basket and a shallow dish of olive oil were plunked down in front of him. 

"Moping--?" Hutch reached for a piece of bread to cover his embarrassment, but the waiter was already turning away. "Hey," he called after him. "What's your real name?" 

The man turned. "Whaddya mean? Don't I look like a Steffano?" 

"No," Hutch replied bluntly. It could possibly be a stage name, but he'd bet the contents of his wallet that it wasn't what the man's mother called him. 

'Steffano' laughed good-naturedly. "Call me Bob. Tell ya what. Leave me a good tip, and I'll even tell ya if that's my real name or not." 

Hutch chuckled as the feisty man whisked away again. He looked no more like a Bob than a Steffano. Hutch amused himself by thinking of alternatives. 

"Stanley," Hutch suggested, when the man returned with his wine. The waiter gave him a confused frown, then smiled as Hutch continued: "Jacob. Bartholomew." 

'Bob' laughed outright. "Keep tryin', Blondie." He went to drop off some napkins for the guests two tables over, then disappeared into the kitchen. He re-emerged with three plates for the table by the window, which he made a show of balancing the whole way there. It was ten minutes before another visit to Hutch. 

"Thanks, Jack," Hutch said, as a salad and a small dish of dressing were set before him. "Or Ray? Dennis?" 

The man grinned delightedly but shook his head. "Top off your water?" 

"No, thank you." 

Bob, or Stanley, or Jack was kept hopping. He seemed to be the only waiter on shift this evening. He seemed to take it in good cheer, however, literally whistling while he worked. After a while, the man stopped by to take the salad plate and to apologize for the delay, by which time Hutch had decided on Aaron, Jesse, or Noah. The man shook his head at each one, grinning. 

The linguini, when it finally arrived, was delicious. The shrimp was indeed plump and fresh, as promised. The waiter denied being Stu, Ben, or Conrad as he shaved parmesan onto the plate. 

A solicitation for a dessert order was accompanied by an expectant look. Hutch tried to avoid sweets, and he told the man so, but he tried out Patrick, Peter, and Valentine, all of which were turned down. 

By the time the check came, Hutch was down to Ivan, Ted, and Randolph. The man smiled at the last and looked triumphant. "Guess that means you give up, huh?" 

"Well, I don't know. There's always tomorrow." 

The man laughed as he cleared plates. "Then you're outta luck, pal. Today's my last day." 

"Hey, congratulations. You have something new lined up?" Hutch thought he might as well go see the guy, even if he probably only had a bit part. 

"Yup. Moving on to bigger and better things." 

"Tell me what show you're on. I'll come watch." 

The waiter looked startled for the first time all night. "Why would ya do that?" 

Hutch smiled. "Why not?" 

The man shrugged, looking abashed. He looked like he was about to say more, but a new customer in a fine suit that screamed money ( _dirty_ money, if Hutch was any judge) walked in. The receptionist's eyes narrowed. She glanced briefly but urgently at the curly-headed waiter before fastening gimlet eyes on the man in the suit. The waiter stiffened. "Hey, sorry, California. I'll see ya another time." 

"Wait." Hutch took hold of his wrist for a brief moment. The texture of the thick starched cotton felt scratchy to his palm. "Be careful," he warned softly. "That guy--" 

"Do me a favor. Just leave the money on the table and get out, okay?" The man broke away with a quick smile and, with this curt farewell, he swept up the remaining flatware and left. 

"Sure," Hutch said to empty air, trying to ignore the tiniest niggle of hurt. A starving artist needed to attend to his work, after all. Even if it was his last day here, he would need good references for the next slow spell. Hutch stood up, brushing off a few stray crumbs, and left the payment for his meal on the table -- including a sizeable tip. 

Suddenly a voice cried out in pain. Across the room, his waiter stood sprawled against the wall with a hand to his nose. When he straightened up, his formerly laughing blue eyes now hooded with fury, Hutch saw his hand come away with blood. 

Automatically, Hutch reached for his weapon and stepped forward to help, but he stopped with a soft curse when the man in the suit ordered gruffly, "Don't move, or I shoot!" He had a gun trained unwaveringly on the curly-headed man, who was visibly seething as he remained still. 

"Hands in the air!" came a voice to the side, and they both turned to see the receptionist, her own weapon pointed straight at the assailant. 

Quick as a flash, the waiter -- though Hutch very much doubted that was his day job -- leaped to tackle the man while he was distracted, bringing him to the floor heavily. The gun was sent skittering across the floor. The obviously-not-a-receptionist moved in swiftly to cover him, just as two patrol cars with sirens whining pulled up outside. 

The whole thing had taken no more than a minute. The handful of remaining patrons still sat paralyzed with shock, one of them with a glass half-raised to his mouth. Shaking his head ruefully, Hutch rebuckled the closure to his holster and got ready to pull out his ID. 

It was much later, at a lull in the activity that accompanied a bust, that Hutch was able to look for a particular curly top. The man he was looking for happened to be looking his way as well. He'd wiped off his bloody nose and had a bandage around his hand. His mustache had disappeared as well. Hutch met him halfway. 

"I left you a good tip," he reminded him. 

The man looked puzzled for a moment, but then his face cleared. He stuck out his hand. "David Starsky. Detective. NYPD." 

Hutch shook strongly. "Ken Hutchinson," he replied. "Detective. Formerly Bay City PD. Just transferred in." 

"A brother cop! I _thought_ there was somethin' different about ya." David shook his head ruefully. "Sorry we didn't give ya a better welcome mat. Foresi came earlier than we expected and made me right off the bat. He ain't usually so sharp, so there's probably something there, but we'll sort that out later." He shrugged, brushing off the threat to his life and limb as nothing more than the norm. It felt like Home Sweet Bay City already. 

"I just wish I'd been more of a help. I've been going crazy, doing scut work and sitting through orientations all week." 

Starsky clapped him on the back. "I think you'll fit in fine here, Detective Hutchinson." 

He grinned back. "Call me Hutch." 

  
END.

**Author's Note:**

>  _"Paul and I were both struggling actors. One night he would serve me in a restaurant, and the next night I would serve him. It was what out-of-work actors did."_ ~David Soul
> 
> * * *
> 
> If you enjoyed this story, you might try these:  
> [A New Life](http://archiveofourown.org/works/460988) (Starsky & Hutch), by kuonji  
> [The Real Culprit](http://archiveofourown.org/works/222443) (Starsky & Hutch), by kuonji  
> [Call Me Watari](http://archiveofourown.org/works/211165) (Death Note), by kuonji  
> [Singed Wings and Twisted Halos](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7660585) (Starsky & Hutch), by exbex


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